


Be My Yoko Ono

by kashmir



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-26
Updated: 2008-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashmir/pseuds/kashmir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where John's a bike messenger and Rodney's an office drone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Yoko Ono

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by [unamaga](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unamaga) who also made me a wonderful manip for this story. Written for the best fandom bamboozler ever - all for you Ambers! &lt;3 It only took me two months. :D

"He's back," Cadman whispers over the top of Rodney's cubicle, only the top of her head and her eyes visible. Rodney frowns at the computer screen in front of him and tries to ignore her.

"Working, here. Go away now," he mutters, flapping a hand absently in her direction, hoping she'll take the hint and sit back down so he can scoot his chair over and peek out of his four by four cubicle-cum-cell and catch a glimpse of the hot bike messenger guy.

Cadman snorts at that and Rodney can tell by the sounds coming from the neighboring cube that she's sitting at her chair again. Where she's supposed to be.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, McKay. We all know you have the hots for the poor guy. Carson has a pool going on how long it'll take you until you creep him out sufficiently and he slaps you with a restraining order," she says, not even trying to keep her voice down.

Rodney bolts out of his chair and hangs over the wall separating them to hiss, "Can it, you harpy! How many times do I have to tell you to stop bringing Samantha Carter into every conversation we have?"

Laura turns in her chair to raise one perfectly sculpted brow at him. "I don't know, _Rodney_ \- how many times did I ask you to do the same thing over the two years you spent pining after her?"

Rodney sputters a little but finally has to concede she has a point. He frowns and points at her, "Just. Be quiet!"

He turns to sit down and is suddenly face to face with the hot bike messenger. The one that may or may not feature heavily in Rodney's jerk-off fantasies. The one that, until today, Rodney has been calling Hotty McTightpants because, according to Cadman, Rodney is too much of a chicken shit to actually talk to the guy and find out his real name. He likes to think of it as more along the lines of self-preservation but to-may-toh, to-mah-toh.

"Delivery for Rodney McKay," the guy says, eyes twinkling with mirth and, oh god, Rodney feels his entire body flush at the knowledge that there's _no way_ that he didn't just hear Rodney and Cadman's little exchange.

"I, uh, that's me," he stammers out, reaching for the brown package the other man is cradling in his arms - his very tan, very nicely muscled, very hairy arms. The guy smiles at him and Rodney feels like he's staring into the sun - a really attractive, Lycra wearing sun, but a sun nonetheless.

The guy smirks, tilts his head down a little, and oh god, now he looks _coy_ and Rodney's so, so screwed. He holds out a really battered looking clipboard, covered in stickers for god-knows-what and Rodney takes it blindly, the grimy looking pen that is attached to the clipboard via some complicated sort of tape/string contraption somehow ending up in his hand.

"Just, uh, sign there," the hot messenger says and Rodney realizes belatedly he's been staring at the guy's crotch which is showcased quite nicely in his tight, tight shorts. Rodney flushes again and scribbles out his name hastily, hoping this humiliation will end soon enough and he can go back to fending off Carson and Cadman's sarcastic comments about the sad state of Rodney's love life/crush/apartment/cat.

The guy takes the clipboard back, hands Rodney the brown box and then, oh god, then he winks at Rodney and leans in close - close enough that Rodney can smell him: sweat, a little bit of car exhaust and oh my god, is that _Aqua Velva_? "By the way, the name's John Sheppard. Just so you know who the restraining order is coming from this time."

He walks away then, whistling something as Cadman hoots with laughter in her cubicle and Rodney wishes fervently that the Earth would just open up and swallow his entire office building right at that moment.

He really doesn't think that's too much to ask.

…

He's back the next day - this time delivering something to that idiot Kavanaugh whose desk is three rows over from Rodney's. After the exchange he'd had with John the day before, Cadman had grabbed Carson and the both of them had nagged until Rodney promised to try and make small talk with him the next time he came in.

Cadman sees him a moment after Rodney does and starts hissing at him over the partition, "Get up, get up! Make sure he sees you! Oh my god, did you have garlic for lunch? Do you need gum? Maybe you should go stand by the water cooler."

Rodney takes a deep breath, blocking out Cadman's inane suggestions and tries to stop his hands from shaking. He thought he'd have at least an entire work day to come up with something witty to say but of course the fates were conspiring against him and he'd had less than twenty-four hours.

He's wheeling his chair backwards, maybe thinking Cadman's suggestion of heading towards the water cooler - nonchalantly of course - might have some merit when he looks up and John is right there, smiling at him.

Rodney tries to stand, forgets he has his foot hooked around the bottom of the chair and almost face plants in John's crotch. He finally gets himself extricated, face burning with embarrassment and tries to smile at John. John, whose eyes are twinkling with mirth. Rodney feels his cheeks get even hotter while Cadman tries to stifle her giggles in her own cubicle and decides to just go for it, opening his mouth to ask John what exactly made him get into the bike messenger business.

He thinks that would've made a great ice-breaker. If that's what had come out.

But since the universe obviously has it out for Rodney, what does come out of his mouth is, "Oh any packages for me today?" Which was said, of course, while staring at John's, well. Package.

There is what could only be described as a shriek of laughter from Laura while John's eyes go comically wide and then he starts to laugh, this horrible braying sound that reminds Rodney a little of a donkey and was, frankly quite unsettling coming from someone so… so _attractive_. John leans against the opening of Rodney's cube after he stops laughing, still smiling.

"No, not right now," he says, voice still laced with amusement. He points at the shelf that is behind Rodney, which holds a state of the art coffee maker and a locked drawer containing some of the best coffee known to man.

"What's with the mini-Starbucks? Thought you office drones used the break room for stuff like that."

Rodney tries to let go of the crippling embarrassment of the past few moments and straightens a little, shoulders going back.

"Well, most of them do. I happen to have a bit more discerning tastes when it comes to my coffee." Rodney pauses and glares at Cadman through the wall. "Plus, I don't like to share."

John arches an eyebrow at that and then straightens, knocking his knuckles against the wall before winking. "Good to know. See you later, McKay."

He's gone before Rodney can process the fact that not only had the super-hot bike messenger remember his name, he'd been _flirting_ with him.

…

John's back again the next day, surprising Rodney who is busily working his way through lunch, a half-eaten sandwich on his desk, computer humming away as it crunches numbers while Rodney is on the phone, berating Radek Zelenka from their San Diego office on how very, very wrong he was about everything.

He looks up after grabbing a handful of chips and sees John smirking at him, holding two cups of coffee. Rodney smiles, ignores the way Radek is squawking indignantly in his ear and says, "I'll call you back," and hangs up on one of Radek's more creative threats.

"Hi," he says, feeling a little foolish and a lot in lust. "Um. You uh, have another delivery in the building?"

John smiles sheepishly and takes a step into Rodney's cubicle, close enough Rodney could reach out and touch the toned muscle of his calf. If he wanted to - which he does. Very much.

"No, just, um. Just this." John holds up one of the cups of coffee and then sits it beside Rodney's elbow. "Guy at the coffee shop said this was the best they had." The tips of his ears are pink now and Rodney knows his own mouth is probably hanging wide open. "Hope you like it."

Rodney picks up the cup, eyes closing in bliss as he inhales the scent of a truly fabulous blend of coffee. He opens them to find John watching him with... interest, his eyes focused on Rodney.

No, correction: his gaze is focused on Rodney's mouth.

Rodney quirks a brow at John and John smiles this time, wide and warm. "Got a little…" he gestures at Rodney's mouth and then leans closer. "Never mind, I got it." He brings a hand up and one of his broad thumbs swipes at the left corner of Rodney's mouth, lingering longer than is necessary (not that Rodney cares), making Rodney's eyes widen, his breath shorten and generally wreaking havoc on Rodney's body.

John pulls back, eyes the mayonnaise on his hand and then giving a tiny little shrug, sucks it into his mouth, eyes closing. Rodney has to literally bite his tongue to keep from moaning at the sight of John sucking on the digit that had just been on Rodney's mouth. After a too-long moment, he lets go of his now wet thumb and smirks at Rodney, winking as he takes a sip of his own coffee.

"See you tomorrow, Rodney," he says, drawing Rodney's name out so that it sounds like some sort of weird caress. Rodney can only manage a tiny whimper in response, and even then not until long after John is gone.

…

They fall into a pattern over the next few weeks: John keeps bringing Rodney his coffee, whether or not he has any deliveries in the building; Rodney stutters a little before managing to spit out a sentence or two and John winks and smirks and basically drives Rodney insane before leaving.

Rodney manages to get over his awkwardness somewhat when Sheppard reveals himself to be as big a geek as Rodney, fussing over the new Star Wars poster Rodney had gotten for his cubicle, the two of them getting into a heated debate over who shot first. (John, of course, supports Han and Rodney spends a good twenty minutes telling him - loudly - exactly how wrong he is. All John does is smile.)

The next day, Rodney decides to test a hypothesis he'd come up with while lying in his bed the night before, unable to sleep, cock uncomfortably hard at the memory of John and his stupid, hairy, knobby knees. When John shows up in Rodney's cubicle - twelve-oh-three on the dot as always - Rodney takes his coffee (gratefully - he doesn't know where John gets it but it was fan-fucking-tastic coffee. Nectar of the gods.) and then eyes John, who's sweaty and flushed and wearing a tiny smile.

He figures he'll start out easy, test the waters. "Nine seventy seven," he says, looking at John.

John sports a confused expression for an instant and then it clears and he smirks, shifting a little where he's leaning against Rodney's desk. "Prime. Also? Easy."

Rodney barely suppresses the urge to rub his hands together in glee. "Okay, okay fine. Your turn."

John licks his lips, lost in concentration, and Rodney almost falls out of his chair before John speaks. "Forty seven thousand, six hundred eighty four."

Rodney sits back in his chair and huffs a little, smiling. "Easy. Not prime. Seventy two thousand, seventy nine."

"Not prime," John answers, settling more comfortably against the desk's surface.

They add 'Prime/Not Prime' to their lunch time routine and every day, when John perches himself on Rodney's desk, they end up closer and closer together, until one day (a Tuesday) John sits so close his bare leg brushes up against Rodney's arm in the midst of Rodney's daily ranting about how John is sure to end up like a bug on some truck's windshield – or, even worse, crushed under a wayward piano - if he's not more careful. The latter never fails to make John laugh his ridiculous yet somehow endearing laugh.

Rodney stops mid-diatribe, swallows audibly, and John just looks down at him, lips curved in a smile, his eyes… There is definite heat in his eyes. Rodney swallows again at that, words forgotten, and then John shifts, standing up, stretching a little, joints popping loudly. He adjusts his pack and then winks at Rodney before - _oh god_ \- cuffing Rodney on the back of the head. Rodney feels himself shiver as John walks out, saying over his shoulder, "See you tomorrow, Rodney."

Rodney looks at the clock and figures the next twenty-four hours (give or take a few minutes) will be the longest of his life.

He isn't wrong.

…

The twenty-four hours turn into something like forty-eight because John doesn't show up the next day. Or Thursday. By lunch-time on Friday, Rodney is vibrating with tension and driving Laura insane with his whispered insistence over the partition that either John is lying dead in a dumpster somewhere, his crushed body stowed there after some horrible driver with a case of road-rage had run him down in a fit of madness, or John has just lost interest in Rodney.

Rodney's not sure which one makes his heart hurt worse.

But then he catches sight of a messenger bag - emblazoned with the logo of the same company John works for - and he takes off, running after the huge behemoth with an amazing set of dreadlocks that belongs to the bag. He catches up with him at the bank of elevators and practically dives into the car as the doors are closing. The huge guy just gives him an unreadable look and punches the 'L' button for the lobby.

Rodney swallows and fiddles nervously with his tie before just blurting out, "Do you know John Sheppard?"

The guy takes his eyes off of the doors and looks at Rodney, face impassive. "Yeah." He goes back to watching the numbers tick down and down.

Rodney huffs and finds himself crossing his arms and ignoring the fact that this guy could crush him like a bug. "Well, where the hell has he been since Tuesday? He usually delivers to this building."

The guy shrugs. "Had an accident. Ms. Weir is making him take off."

Rodney feels his stomach drop down through the floor as the doors open and the big guy starts to step out. He rushes out after him, shoving past people to catch up with him. He reaches him just as he's fitting a helmet on top of his dreads and Rodney is fascinated for a moment that he found one to fit and then he mentally shakes himself and plants his feet right in front of his bike.

"I - Listen, I need to - I need to talk to him. Is there… How can I get a hold of him?" Rodney sputters out, desperate with the need to find out for himself that John's still in one piece.

The other guy stops and eyes him for a moment and then his expression changes, just a bit. "You're Rodney."

It's not a question and Rodney's mind whirls at the implications of that.

"He - he's mentioned me?" he asks, voice a little too unsteady for his taste.

"Name's Ronon," the guy says instead of answering, sticking his hand out. Rodney takes it numbly, wincing a little at how firm the handshake is. "Hold on, lemme get you his address."

…

Two hours later, Rodney's standing outside of apartment 4D in a tiny building in the Mission District, frantically pacing and mumbling under his breath while he tries to come up with an opening that doesn't scream 'creepy stalker.'

He bites his lip, turns around to start pacing the other direction, messenger bag slapping hard against his hip, and almost falls over at the sight of John leaning in the open doorway when he turns back around. John's wearing an expression on his face that is sort of a cross between bemused and pleased. Rodney starts to smile in response, those damn butterflies that John seems to produce fluttering up a storm in his stomach but then he really looks at John and catalogs the scrape on his cheek and the fact that his one wrist is encased in a brace made of plastic and foam.

His mouth thins and be barrels towards John, grabbing his uninjured wrist and getting them both inside the apartment.

John, for all that Rodney is manhandling him and giving him a look that usually sends people screaming in the other direction, just smiles and stands closer to Rodney. Rodney inhales deeply, intent on reading John the riot act about how he should _listen_ to Rodney for god's sake, as he was obviously _right_ about some insane motorist trying to off him. But then he gets a whiff of John, who smells like newspaper ink and good Chinese take out and soap and god, who knew those things would ever be a turn on, he thinks distantly as his train of thought derails rather magnificently.

"You're… here," John says, sounding incredulous but not exactly displeased. Rodney nods and then getting a good look at the scrape and god, the bruise underneath that he hadn't noticed at first, he remembers what he was going to yell at John about.

"I am. Because you had to go and get yourself all… all," he pauses, waves his hand around in a gesture that encompasses all of John's injuries. "_Broken_!"

John smiles and grabs Rodney's wrist, tugs him towards the sofa. "Not broken. Banged up a little. That's all."

Rodney scowls but lets himself be dragged down onto.. Oh god, it wasn't even a sofa. It was a _futon_ \- a futon that looks like John had had it since at least his freshmen year of college and that was a hideous shade of purple.

"No doubt by some bloodthirsty, road-rage addled commuter!" Rodney says, not willing to be mollified by the fact that John's leg is pressed tight against his, his hand still wrapped around Rodney's arm.

John chuckles and lets his head roll against the back of the futon to look at Rodney dead-on.

"Not a crazy commuter, McKay. Just a tree with a death wish and me trying to not run over a runaway dog."

Rodney can't help but notice how… softly John is watching him and how his eyes seem to be a different shade in the light shining in through the windows than in the artificial fluorescent lighting at his office. He lets himself fall back against the futon, his messenger bag dropping to the floor with a quiet thud. "Oh," he says, intelligently and then swallows, looking to his left when he feels John shift closer.

"Yeah, 'oh.' I'm careful, Rodney," he flashes a quick smile, wicked in such close proximity. "Scout's honor."

Rodney can't help himself then, doesn't know where he finds the courage or the wherewithal or, hell, the _balls_ to do what he does next, but he does. He just leans over, hand cupping John's chin and pressing their mouth's together, lightly at first and then when he feels the sweet drag of John's dry lips against his, Rodney moans and presses in closer, deepening the kiss. John kisses him back, hungrily, tongue sweeping out to lick at the corners of Rodney's mouth until Rodney whimpers and lets him in.

He isn't sure of how long it goes on for, gets lost in the taste and feel of John. He starts to run his hands down over John's chest, nudging his fingers under the bottom of John's tee when John pulls away, pushing Rodney back a little with his good hand.

"Rodney, I - wait, stop," he gets out, sounding as breathless as Rodney feels. Rodney's heart sinks and he realizes he should've _known_ his luck didn't run like this and sits back even further, reaching down to grab the straps of his bag.

He refuses to meet John's gaze, to see the rejection written on his features, or worse, pity in his eyes. He points vaguely towards the door. "I should... go. Work and the cat and…" he trails off, rubbing his hands nervously on his thighs.

John's hand on his arm stops him when he goes to move and his resolve crumbles as he turns to face him. Except… there's no rejection or pity on John's face. Just this strange look, his eyes glazed, mouth flushed.

"Rodney, I just…" he gestures towards the tiny kitchen. "It's time for my pain meds. It's not that I don't want to - trust me, _I do_," he says with a half-hearted leer. "It's just my arm's sort of killin' me here."

Rodney feels his body flush with relief and sets his bag down. "Oh well, I… I can get them for you. Do you need water?"

John smiles a bit weakly and nods. "Yeah - the pills are on top of the fridge." Rodney stands to head into the kitchen but John's hand on his wrist stop him. "Rodney – I – thank you," he finally manages, pulling Rodney down to press a chaste kiss to his lips. Rodney feels himself smile dopily and straightens.

"No trouble at all."

…

They spend the rest of the night curled together on John's ridiculous futon where he apparently _sleeps_ and this revelation leads to another long-winded rant on Rodney's part about just what John's doing to his spine. John, however, has apparently discovered that if he kisses Rodney, soft and sweet and sure, it will distract him thoroughly and - if last night is anything to go by - will lead to more kissing.

John falls asleep around midnight, the Twilight Zone marathon they'd been watching still playing in the background. The white light of the television makes John look almost ethereal, and as Rodney traces the outline of the sharp curve of John's ear with his eyes, snickering to himself, he makes a mental note to ask him if he hails from Rivendell or Mirkwood. John sort of snuffling into his shoulder and then sighing, almost as he if were content, is the last thing Rodney remembers before it's suddenly morning.

He realizes he has a horrible crick in his neck at the same moment he realizes John is draped all against his left side, that they're curled together lengthwise on the horrible torture device Sheppard calls a bed and that there is a petite and stunning woman standing at their feet, arms crossed, her expression bemused and curious at the same time.

Rodney tries to wave but realizes his left arm is entirety trapped by John and settles for smiling, albeit a bit sheepishly at the woman. The woman smiles back, inclining her head towards him. "I am Teyla Emmagen, John's roommate. I am going to make the assumption you are the Rodney he has been mentioning non-stop for the past few weeks? The one who works in the financial district?"

Rodney nods, feeling his smile turn a bit dopey even as his chest does a weird clenching, melting thing. "I - yes. That's me, Rodney McKay." He forgets about the leaden weight of one John Sheppard again for a moment when he tries to extend his hand for Teyla to shake and then huffs a little, shrugging at her as if to say, 'what can you do?'

Teyla just smiles enigmatically again, which Rodney is beginning to suspect might happen quite frequently, and nods. "Would you like some coffee, Rodney?"

Rodney looks back up at her from where he'd been studying the gravity-defying tufts of John's hair and thinks if he wasn't so into John, he'd try for Teyla - he figured you had to appreciate a person who had their priorities straight when it came to caffeine.

"Oh, yes please," he answers, smiling when John sort of snuffles against his skin.

"John has recently acquired a taste for a rather particularly expensive brand. I wonder where he might have picked up such a thing," she says, making her way into their tiny kitchen.

Rodney smiles to himself and presses a small kiss to the crown of John's head, grinning wider when John shifts even closer. Teyla looks over at them from the kitchen and just smiles as she busies herself with the coffee maker.

...

John's back at work that Tuesday and when he shows up at Rodney's cubicle, he's flushed, and instead of the normal coffee, he has lunch - take out from Rodney's favorite Chinese place a few blocks over. It was obviously still fresh and the smell of the chicken with broccoli made Rodney's mouth water. He pushes his chair back and inhales deeply, letting his eyes fall shut, saying with a low moan, "Oh god... you brought me Chinese? Wait, wait, not just any Chinese - Chinese from Peking Palace?"

John sort of shuffles a bit, eyes downcast, and scratches the back of his neck. "Well, when you were over on Sunday, you mentioned it - and your citrus allergy, so it's, you know, safe. And, well, um. I thought I might surprise you?"

Rodney has to physically restrain himself from grabbing John and molesting him right there beside the copier. "Oh, yes, yes - very good surprise." He can hear Cadman sputtering in the next cubicle, knows John can too but finds he doesn't care one iota.

John flashes Rodney a wicked smile and holds up the bag. "Wanna go outside and eat? It's a gorgeous day."

Rodney grabs his suit jacket and slides it on. "Yeah, okay. Lead the way."

He ignores Cadman's hoot of laughter as they head towards the elevator together.

After that, they spend every lunch hour together, eating or sometimes just having coffee, or on one memorable occasion, making out in the park across the street from Rodney's building. They end up spending most of their evening's together; movies at one of their apartments or on a few occasions, heading to this tiny theater not far from Rodney's place to catch double features of old B-movies. They usually end up making out more than watching the movies but Rodney doesn't care.

John is probably the best guy he'd ever dated - and wow, hadn't that been sort of a shock, to realize two weeks into it that he and Sheppard were _dating_ and no one had thought to mention it to him. He got over it quick enough, when John brought over Mystery Science Theater 3000 DVDs later that night, along with some deep-dish pizza.

John tries to get Rodney to work out with him one Saturday, while they're sitting together (in no way were they cuddling, nope, not at all) on his futon watching a marathon of the Indiana Jones' movies. Rodney muted the television and sits up straight, eyes wide as he stares at John.

"Wait, wait. Let me get this straight. You ride a bike around one of the hilliest and busiest cities in the country for eight hours a day, five days a week and yet... you still _work out_?"

John shrugs and shoves another handful of Frito's in his mouth. "S'fun. Ronon and I belong to the same gym."

Rodney throws up his hands before leaning back and snatching some of John's corn chips. "Oh well Ronon is in on it. That explains so much."

John just chuckles before leaning up and pressing a quick and dirty kiss to Rodney's lips, tasting sharp and salty. He pulls away to turn the movie back up, settling back against Rodney's side, and Rodney can't do much more than lick his lips and wrap an arm around John's shoulders as Indy battles the Nazis on-screen.

One Wednesday night, after a particularly memorable date (and how much did Rodney love mentioning that to Cadman on his way out every evening?) where they spent the evening at an arcade that John knew of, when, for some reason, John decided to drop bombshell after bombshell about his past.

They spent hours playing skee-ball and trying to one-up each other's scores before leaving and getting some ice cream in a little shop around the corner. John didn't much like to talk about his past - once, right after the Twilight Zone Marathon Incident, as Rodney called it, he made the mistake of asking John to tell him about himself. His eyes had gone shuttered and all he'd said was, "I like college football, Ferris wheels and anything that goes faster than two hundred miles per hour." Rodney didn't pry after that, just let John offer tidbits of himself when he felt the need.

On this particular night, as they were sitting outside on the sidewalk, tiny little cafe table close to the building as they ate – or, in Rodney's case, devoured - their dessert, John started in with the revelations.

Rodney tries not to spit mint-chocolate chip everywhere but it's a close thing after the first. "What do you mean, your father owns Sheppard Holdings? That's who I work for!"

John shrugs and takes another bite of his banana split. "I know, Rodney," he says, drawing out the syllables like he always does. Rodney realizes he should probably find it annoying instead of cute but John lives to defy every standard and rule Rodney adheres to. "I can read, you know."

Rodney tries to calm himself; it isn't easy. "Well, why then, if your father is one of the richest men in the _world_ do you nearly kill yourself daily as a bike messenger?"

John shrugs again. He blatantly ignores the bit about his job - an on-going argument between the two of them that Rodney is determined to win. He likes John better in one piece, thank you very much.

"Beats being cooped up in an office. Besides, haven't spoken to my dad in years. He wanted me to go to Harvard, take over one day." John points up with his spoon then, towards the orange and lavender twilight above their heads. "I just wanted to fly. So I applied to schools I knew my dad would pay for but that weren't Harvard, got my degrees in Aeronautical Engineering and Mathematics from Stanford and then joined the Air Force. Around about that time, Dad wrote me out of the will and stopped talking to me. Don't think he'd look too kindly on me asking for a job."

This time, Rodney does spit his ice cream out. "You were in the _Air Force_? Wait, wait. _Degrees_ plural, as in more than one?"

John just sits back, wiping his mouth with a napkin and smirks. "Major John Sheppard, Stanford University alum, at your service." He does a messy, half-assed salute and then eyes Rodney's cone. "You gonna eat that?"

Rodney looks down at the sugar cone in his hand, green ice cream melting down over his fist, and he can only stare, wide-eyed and still shocked. John smirks when Rodney doesn't answer and then bends over, licking a hot line over Rodney's wrist and the back of his hand, leaving him breathless and flushed.

"You have to stop doing that to me in public," Rodney manages to hiss out, his cock uncomfortably hard in his pants.

John's eyes go liquid and dark. "How about in private?"

The thing is, despite them having been dating for nearly three weeks, they've never managed to get beyond some very hot (and a few times heavy) make out sessions - no touching each other's cocks, except for maybe briefly through their clothes - and much to Rodney's chagrin, there have been no orgasms, mutual or otherwise.

So when John gets that look in his eyes, his strong hand still wrapped tight around Rodney's arm, all he can do is swallow and nod. John flashes him a grin, swift and mischievous, as they stand, both of them tugging down their shirts a little. It's a short walk back to John's apartment, the night muggy and invasive around them, and Rodney can't wait to get his hands on all of John's tan skin, his muscles, god, his neck of all things. They steal little touches and glances on the way back, and when they're about a block away, John presses Rodney into the dark doorway of a bookstore that's closed for the night and kisses him nearly senseless. He whimpers when John pulls away and smirks before grabbing Rodney's hand and heading back towards his place.

But, when they get there, John's answering machine is blinking, the tiny red light intrusive in the darkness as Rodney licks and sucks at John's pulse point, trying to distract him from it. But John just huffs a laugh, gently pushes Rodney away and presses a kiss to his lips.

"Hold that thought. Just lemme check the machine, okay?"

Rodney feels his stomach sink though when he hears the message; it's Teyla, who is, apparently, calling from a jail in Santa Cruz where she's been arrested during a Greenpeace protest. John turns to him, apologetic look already on his face, and Rodney may be disappointed but he likes Teyla, knows John has to go and bail her out - they have a procedure for things like this, John and Teyla.

Rodney holds up a hand when John starts to stutter out an explanation. He takes the two steps that are separating them and cups John's neck with his hand, kissing him silent. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere. Except to maybe Santa Cruz with you to go get your hippie roommate. Want some company? We can maybe take my car."

And judging by the huge grin on John's face and the enthusiastic kiss he plants on Rodney, Rodney knows that, for once in his life, he's said the right thing.

...

The Friday after Teyla gets arrested, John is waiting for Rodney in the lobby when he gets off work at five. John has obviously been home – he's wearing navy snap pants and a blue tee shirt that clings to him in all the places Rodney wants to put his mouth. John smiles a bit shyly and Rodney can't help the way his stomach flips over, presses a quick kiss to John's smiling mouth and lets John lead him out onto the rainy street.

They end up back in John's neighborhood, standing in John's kitchen and eating hot dogs bought from the street vendors - Rodney moaning in delight at bacon-wrapped hot dogs, piled high with onions, bell peppers, jalapeños, ketchup _and_ mustard. John just smiles as he eats his own hot dog, admitting he could only ever eat them when Teyla, who was a strict vegetarian, was off spending the weekend with her boyfriend, some guy named Evan who was an organic farmer that lived outside city limits.

Rodney swallows his last bite hard as what John has said sinks in, just realizing now how dark and quiet the apartment is. "So, um, Teyla's away for the weekend?"

John turns to toss his trash away and then looks at Rodney, smile wicked and eyes hot. "Mmmhmm, until late Sunday night. Got the apartment all to myself."

Rodney throws his napkin and wrapper out and then dusts the crumbs off his hands. He looks at John and smiles, ignoring the butterflies (god, John gives him _butterflies_ \- he's in his late _thirties_, he has no business having _butterflies_) that are fluttering in his stomach at the way John's looking at him, as if Rodney is a tastier treat than the hot dogs they'd just eaten.

"Well, then," Rodney says, tilting his chin up a little. John winks and tugs a little at Rodney's arm before leaning in and whispering, "I'll even let you fuck me if you want."

Rodney whimpers at that and turns his face just enough to find John's mouth with his own, fingers cupping his lean hips and pulling him to Rodney. John moans into he kiss, moans even louder when Rodney pushes him back against the counter, fingers sliding down and slipping between the holes on the side of his pants, enjoying the way John shivers when he drags them against the skin he finds there; slightly hairy, firm, hot skin that he can't wait to see.

He presses one last, bruising kiss to John's lips before pulling back, the both of them breathing heavy, and squeezes John's leg, smiling as John tries to follow his mouth, whining a little in protest.

"Hold that thought," Rodney mutters, voice low and thready as he smirks and then sinks to his knees - albeit not as gracefully as he would've liked, but by the way John is moaning and grabbing at Rodney's shoulders, he hasn't noticed. Rodney takes a breath and then yanks on John's pant leg, biting his lip when John's entire leg is exposed and, _oh fuck_, Rodney realizes as he makes his way up past John's nicely muscled thigh, _John isn't wearing underwear._

He presses the heel of his hand hard against his cock and then bends down, starts dragging his mouth up the outside of John's leg, loving the way John looks as Rodney peers up at him from beneath his lashes. He's gripping the counter behind him, biting at his own mouth and, god, Rodney wants to do that himself.

He finishes pressing kisses into the skin of John's thigh and then stands, one hand stealing up under the fabric until he has John's dick in his hand - John's hard, long, leaking dick. Rodney whimpers with John and crushes their mouths together as he starts to thrust, the image of how wet and _slippery_ the front of John's pants were from precome burned into his brain.

Rodney pulls back, John panting and flushed, to watch as the material grows slicker, John's cock harder in his hand and, fuck, he wants to see John come. They have all weekend and he wants to - god, he wants to fuck John and suck him off and _be fucked_ by John and oh, there's so much, so much they can do to, _with_ one another.

He doesn't realize he's been murmuring all of that out loud until John gets out a husky, "Oh fuck, me too, me too, yes, Rodney, anything, _anything_."

Rodney moans at that, at how he can clearly see the outline of John's cock through the material of his pants, his own hand roughly jacking him. The thin nylon isn't hiding anything from Rodney, nor is the look on John's face - he's wide open, everything right there for Rodney to see. That alone would be enough to drive Rodney insane, and then he feels John's cock twitching in his hand, jerking as John comes with a bitten-off groan and that's even better.

Rodney strokes him through it, slick fist slowly loosening until John's reaching up with both hands to hold onto Rodney's shoulders, grip tight, to keep himself upright, still shaking. Rodney manages to get his hand free and brings it to his mouth, keeping his eyes glued to John's blown-open gaze as he slowly and deliberately licks John's come off his fingers and his palm.

John sinks to his knees then, loose-limbed and pliant, nuzzling at Rodney's cock through Rodney's dress pants. Rodney's suddenly unsteady hands come up to cup the back of John's head, trying to protest - he wants to undress John, spread him out naked and lick and suck and bite and then fuck him - but John chooses that moment to undo Rodney's zipper with his teeth and he can't find air to breathe let alone protest.

John has his lower lip caught between his teeth as he slowly eases Rodney out of his pants and underwear, looking up at him coyly, licking his lips as he takes Rodney in hand. Rodney groans hard as John takes his cock and drags it along the stubbled skin of his cheek and, oh god, delicately laps up the pearl of moisture at the head with his pink, pink tongue – and that's it, Rodney's done for.

He comes hard, almost doubling over, striping John's mouth and cheeks with his come, moaning louder when John closes his eyes and just _lets him_. He comes for what seems like forever before finally, finally the shudders subside and he feels his knees try to buckle. John stands and wraps an arm around Rodney to hold him up, using his other to bring the hem of his tee up to wipe his face off, mouth split wide in a huge grin.

"Shower?" he husks, eyes still dark, a droplet of Rodney's come clinging to his lips. Rodney nods, mouth hanging wide open as he wipes it off of John's skin with his thumb, before pressing against John's own mouth, shivering when John opens up, sucks it in, sucks it clean. John smiles around his mouthful and winks before letting Rodney's thumb slip out of his mouth, catching his hand and dragging him towards the tiny bathroom.

...

Rodney gets his chance to fuck John the next morning. He wakes him with a slow, lazy blow job and once John has come spectacularly, Rodney gently rolls him over and opens him up with deft fingers. John is loose beneath him, pliable, and when Rodney slicks up his cock and presses in, there's so little resistance he has to close his eyes tight and think of his Aunt Mildred naked to stave off his orgasm.

John's spineless like this, voice low in the early morning sunshine, urging Rodney on with his body and his words, and it doesn't take long at all for Rodney to come, John's name on his lips. They collapse together afterwards, John rolling so that he's on his side facing Rodney, tracing idle patterns on Rodney's belly with his fingers.

Rodney runs a light hand up and down John's back, tracing the lines and curves there, learning them by feel. They'd spent a long time last night in bed touching and kissing, and Rodney had found himself a bit disconcerted by how many scars John's body bears.

When he tried to ask him about them, about where he'd gotten them, while in the Air Force of the damnable job he has now, John's eyes had shifted away and he'd silenced Rodney's inquiries with a deep, wet kiss. Even though he'd been distracted, Rodney had gotten the message loud and clear. Didn't mean he wasn't going to worry, however.

They spend the entire weekend holed up in John's apartment, barring one short trip to Rodney's place so he can grab a change of clothes early Saturday morning. They watch movies and spend hours exploring each other's bodies, driving the other nearly insane before letting him come, eating nothing but take-out and sleeping curled up together on John's entirely too small futon under his garish orange bed spread.

Rodney also spends a lot of time that weekend trying to convince John to look for another job, one that's less _dangerous_, even going so far as to circle ads for him in the Sunday edition of the Chronicle. John just rolls his eyes and roots for the comics, sighing a bit and saying, "Whatever, Rodney. I love my job."

Rodney sighs himself and flops down next to John, resting his head on John's surprisingly sturdy shoulder, reading Garfield half-heartedly. "I just worry," he mumbles.

John kisses Rodney's temple and goes back to reading. "I know."

...

Rodney gets the call a month later in the middle of an argument with Cadman about which is superior, Swiss or German chocolate, so he's distracted when he picks up the receiver, the perfunctory, clinical voice on the other end asking for him taking a minute to register.

"Yes, yes," he says, unease and dread forming a knot in his stomach, "this is Rodney McKay. Who are you again?"

"My name is Joann Schmidt, I'm a nurse in the ER at St. Luke's. You're listed as an emergency contact for one John Sheppard - " Rodney cuts her off as he stands.

"Oh god, what did that idiot run into now?" he says, reaching for his jacket as he talks, powering down his computer. Cadman is making shooing motions; Rodney knows he can count on her to cover for him.

"A car, sir. Or rather, it ran into him. He's unconscious right now, awaiting surgery but we need you to come - "

Rodney cuts her off again, grabbing his bag and stuffing whatever he can grab into it. "I'll be there in five," he says and hangs up, visions of John laying broken and bloodied in the middle of the street, his mangled bike lying beside him dancing in his head. He gives Cadman a look, tries to ignore how his hands have started to shake.

"I have to get to St. Luke's," he says, voice surprisingly steady. "John got hit by a car."

Cadman squeezes his arm once and picks up his phone, dialing. "Go, go," she says, shooing him again. "I'll make sure there's a cab waiting for you."

He turns to go, stops when Cadman calls out to him. She's hanging around the edge of his cubicle, mouth frowning, eyes concerned. "Call me later, let me know how - things went, okay?"

Rodney nods and then makes a beeline for the elevators, heart pounding the entire way.

...

He makes it to the hospital just as John's being wheeled into surgery and feels his gut tighten at the sight of John, pale, covered in wires and tubes, his ridiculous hair covered by one of those awful paper bonnets. He's unconscious from the morphine, they explain, and the surgery is to repair some damage to his knee; John was extraordinarily lucky that he wasn't hurt worse. They're obviously in a hurry to get him to the OR, but stop long enough to let Rodney press a hand to John's forehead, lean down and whisper, "So help me god, Sheppard, I am going to kill you myself later for this stunt."

He spends the next few hours pacing in the waiting area, running his hands through his hair and drinking cup after cup of the sludge the hospital cafeteria deems as 'coffee.' Teyla shows up about two hours after Rodney, looking frantic, catching Rodney in a hug and explaining that she and Evan had been down around Big Sur hiking, and since she hadn't had a signal on her cell phone, she hadn't learned of John's accident immediately. He hugs her back, glad to have someone to share his vigil with, and smiles politely when she introduces him to her boyfriend, Evan Lorne, who, in Rodney's opinion, looks a little too clean-cut and all-American to be an organic farmer slash artist slash activist. He says as much, and Evan only laughs in response, laces his fingers with Teyla's and says he gets that a lot.

Ronon shows up not long after that, his girlfriend in tow, a cute little surgery resident from Saint Francis who reassures Rodney that she talked to the doctors and John will be fine. Ronon grabs him and lifts him off of his feet in a huge bear hug, surprising a squeak out of Rodney before he's on his feet again.

Ronon claps him on the shoulder, hard enough to have him taking a step forward and says, "Sheppard's tough. He'll be back on his feet in no time."

Rodney nods, falls back into the uncomfortable seat against the wall and lets his hands drop into his lap. He looks around, at these people who are not only concerned for John - as they should be, he thinks - but also about Rodney. He feels a spark of warmth in his chest and half-smiles, thinking to himself that if he were less intelligent and believed in God, he might be doing some serious thanking right now.

The doctor comes in and informs them all that John pulled through just fine and is, in fact, back in his room and asking for Rodney. Rodney exhales, a little shakily and stands, following the doctor down the corridor to John's room.

The doctor lets him go in by himself, warns him John might be a bit loopy from the pain medication and also very worn out but smiles kindly and pats Rodney on the shoulder before heading back towards the nurses station.

John's got his eyes closed and his right is leg propped up on some pillows, wrapped in white gauze, a startling contrast to his tan skin. He has a few scrapes on his face, arms, bruises in varying shapes, sizes and shades but he's whole and intact and breathing and Rodney's legs give out on him at that exact moment and he sits down heavily in the hard plastic chair at his bedside, breath leaving him in a whoosh.

John's eyes open at the sound and he turns his head, smiling dopily when he manages to focus on Rodney. He holds out a hand, IV tubing trailing along his wrist, and fumbles for Rodney.

"Rodney," he whispers, frowning when his voice comes out raspy and dry. Rodney fills a cup of water from the pitcher tray and helps John drink it, unconsciously smoothing his hair back. When John's done, he leans back with a satisfied, 'ah' and a half-smirk. Rodney feels his heart stutter over a beat and then he's laying his head down on the bed beside John's arm, trying not to cry and/or hyperventilate. John's clumsy fingers manage to get tangled in Rodney's hair as he tries to soothe him. Rodney's surprised (although not as much as he should be) when it works and after a few moments, he can bring his head up to look at John, knowing he has to look like shit, eyes red-rimmed and face showing everything he can't bear to hold back any longer.

He takes a deep breath, grabbing a hold of John's hand and then says, "Please, John, please don't do this anymore. I'll - I'll build you a _plane_ just, please - stop."

John's response is to smile, goofy and high on morphine or whatever they've dosed him with, and close his eyes. "Okay," he murmurs, squeezing Rodney's fingers once and then drifting off, their hands still entwined.

...

When it comes time for John to be released from the hospital, he's plus one pair of crutches, and he has orders to attend physical therapy three times a week and a really, really cranky attitude from being cooped up for days on end. Rodney insists he come and stay with him, arguing that his apartment is bigger (which it is), easier to get around (slightly debatable) and that, this way, Teyla won't have to interrupt her life to care for an invalid.

The only part of Rodney's argument anyone protested to was John being called an invalid and that was by John himself. Rodney smirks at him and then proceeds to make arrangements with Teyla to have some of John's stuff brought over.

Once John is discharged and safely at Rodney's place, they settle into a routine. John's the best roommate-boyfriend-whatever Rodney's ever had and he confesses that (a little shyly) to John one night over a game of Zelda. John smiles and bumps him with his elbow before leaning over and pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of Rodney's mouth.

"You're such a charmer, Rodney," he says and Rodney flushes before pummeling John spectacularly on-screen.

...

About four weeks after John's released from the hospital, Rodney comes home after stopping on the way for Chinese to find John waiting in the kitchen, perched on the counter, phone in his hand, good leg swinging a little. Rodney's about to warn him not to scuff the cabinets when John looks over and smiles, eyes twinkling. And Rodney thinks he'd complain about how John can do that, derail him with a single look, but he enjoys it way too much, so he just raises an eyebrow (although he knows he can't do that as well as John) and says, "What are you smirking about?"

He sets his messenger bag down on the counter and just as he's about to put their dinner down, John clears his throat, flushes and averts his eyes a little.

"Um. How would you feel if I... um. If I stayed?"

Rodney drops the plastic bag containing their food on the floor, ignoring the way half the containers spill their contents in his haste to get to John. John, who is trying to stammer out an explanation about Teyla selling the apartment to live with Lorne but Rodney isn't listening, doesn't care. He manages to get John safely off of the counter and starts dragging him towards the bedroom.

John stops him in the hallway, half-laughing as he covers Rodney's hands on the fly of his jeans, saying, "Hey, hey, don't you wanna-maybe we should talk about this."

Rodney slows down long enough to roll his eyes at John, and then cups his face, kisses him, slow and hot and deep, before pulling back to murmur. "I don't care, I don't care. I love you, you dumbass."

John smiles widely, finally getting with the program and says, as he helps Rodney get them into the bedroom and naked, "Oh, well. Okay then."

Afterward, when they're lying with their legs twined together, bodies still slick with sweat and come, John presses a kiss to the curve of Rodney's shoulder and says, "I - you know. Me too."

Rodney snorts, affectionately and wraps an arm around him, drawing him in closer. "I know. Idiot," he mutters, but he kisses John's hair and smiles.

**END**


End file.
